


Will You Remember Me When I Can’t Remember Myself?

by Still_beating_heart



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Again because Isaac has a chapter, And then it's going to hurt some more, And we know he doesn't die, Because Issac has a chapter, Because that spoils the fun, But John fits better than Noah, But pretend you didn't know that, But then Derek is going to sacrifice himself, Dementia, Happy Ending, He just turns into a wolf, Human Sacrifice, I don't want to step on any OG fandom toes by using John, I hope that's okay, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Married Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Mild Gore, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Sheriff's alcoholism mentioned, So is Claudia, Stiles Stilinski Has Dementia, The Hales are all still dead, but with a, for awhile, of course, pain and suffering, this is going to hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:01:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24971971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_beating_heart/pseuds/Still_beating_heart
Summary: I pissed it all away in the tags...  if you like surprises in your plot then don't read the tags...  otherwise read tags for trigger warnings and apparently the whole plot.--------John remembers watching, feeling as though he should have left the room, give them privacy, but he was still a minor then.  Stiles was still a minor.  Gripping Derek’s face in his hands, begging, pleading with the world and his own body and the will of the man he loved to, “remember me.  Will you remember me when I can’t remember myself?  Will you know who I am when I’m nowhere near the things I am now?  Will you make me fall in love with you a thousand times when I wake up every morning and don’t recognize you?” his voice broke then, his forehead nudging into Derek’s as Derek’s hand rose, gripping his body close, so close there wasn’t a breath between them.“I can’t make you fall in love with me again if I never let you fall out of it."----------
Relationships: Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 16
Kudos: 116





	1. Will You Remember Me When I Can’t Remember Myself?

**Author's Note:**

> So far I have only referred to Sheriff as Sheriff or Dad, but since the first chapter is in his POV I had to use a name. I hope I'm not stepping on any OG fandom toes by using John, but it fits him better than Noah does.
> 
> Buckle up, this one's going to get rough for awhile.

Will You Remember Me When I Can’t Remember Myself?

John remembers watching, feeling as though he should have left the room, give them privacy, but he was still a minor then. Stiles was still a minor. Gripping Derek’s face in his hands, begging, pleading with the world and his own body and the will of the man he loved to, “remember me. Will you remember me when I can’t remember myself? Will you know who I am when I’m nowhere near the things I am now? Will you make me fall in love with you a thousand times when I wake up every morning and don’t recognize you?” his voice broke then, his forehead nudging into Derek’s as Derek’s hand rose, gripping his body close, so close there wasn’t a breath between them.

“I can’t make you fall in love with me again if I never let you fall out of it,” his voice was a tiny thing for such a big man. It wasn’t the first time the sheriff had heard it so small. It was always small when Stiles needed it to be. It was always gentle and soft when it was fighting for space inside his head with all the loud things that were threatening to wash him away in a wave of panic. 

The images of the scans were still on the board beside them. Mocking him with all the memories of his wife, reaching out to slap him with every breath he took. He remembers her, as she grew sicker and faded away, he remembers her grasping his hand, and ice cold thing in his grip and resting on his heart, as she begged him or maybe the gods or the universe or whoever could possibly answer, “please don’t let this happen to him. Please don’t let this happen to my son.”

He had blanketed their linked hands with his free one then, patting up and down, opening his mouth to reassure her, to tell her, no matter how silly the request seemed at the time, no matter how little control he had in the end. But her brown eyes, the ones his son looks at him with, locked onto his and her voice became harsh, demanding, “don’t let this happen to him.”

The words glued themselves to the roof of his mouth and all he could offer was a nod. 

———————

They marry in a private ceremony as the leaves begin to turn vivid shades of Autumn. The scent of dying Summer in the air and the feeling of a bone deep ache laced with the oncoming Winter winds surrounding them like failing hope.

———————

It’s meds and tears. Closing himself in his room when he runs away from Derek to find a place he knows, a place he can remember, a place he called home once. It’s Derek huddled into himself with his back against the bedroom door, in the hallway torturing himself while he listens to the muffled cries.

It’s pain in his eyes when Sheriff drops to his knees in front of him, a pain he remembers wearing as he listened to the same thing, the same thing just further down the hall. He watches his hand rise, and fall on broad shoulders, giving a squeeze as words fail him and those eyes tear his heart away from his ribcage.

———————

There are good days. Days when the sun is bright and dancing through the empty tree branches, bare for the winter chill, frost on the ground lit up like diamonds sparked underfoot in the woods surrounding the old Hale house. 

There are good days too. When his laugh is real, when it’s carefree and his eyes dance with mischief. 

There are good days too.

———————

Scans and bad news. The light in Derek’s eyes dimming with every appointment. 

They sit on the porch in the Spring’s warmth. He watches as his son’s eyebrows furl with confusion, as his head cranes to the side to study his husband’s face, as his fingers glaze over his wedding band. The wide, strong arm that’s resting over his shoulders shifts, eye contact is made but it’s too late. He darts off the porch swing, backing up like a frightened animal cornered, he doesn’t speak, he doesn’t have to. 

“Son,” the sheriff rises to his feet, extending his hands, taking a small step towards him, “Stiles,” forcing it to steady.

His round eyes, dark and deep with all the things a young man should never have to face. They dart from John’s face to Derek’s and towards the house, then the yard, they land on the Jeep, where it’s parked in his usual spot. Where he parked it six months ago, the last time he was legally able to drive. Where he parked it before they removed his keys, and disconnected the starter. 

“Dad,” it hiccups, his back meets the wall and he has no further to go, “I want to go home.”

“You are home son,” his hands are between them like offerings.

“No. No,” his mouth stays open, eyes trying to find anything, anything that’s familiar, that he’s felt against him or under his hand. Anything that reminds him of who he is. How he got here, “I don’t,” his left hand rises, eyeing the wedding band, the one that matches Derek’s, the one that he picked out and he insisted it was happening, it was happening before he could forget it, it was happening before he no longer had the freewill to make the decision, it was happening while he still had time to enjoy it, to know he belonged to someone who chose him, “I don’t remember,” eyes wide, landing on Derek beyond John’s shoulder, “what am I doing here? Where’s Lydia?”

He hears the swing protest as Derek’s body weight rises, leaving it alone to it’s back and forth of phantom bodies. He hears the screen door open and close, and he knows this. He knows how this part feels. He remembers Claudia, balled up on the floor of their bedroom insisting he call her husband, that he take that strange little boy away from her and he call her husband to come pick her up, to bring her back to Half Moon Bay where she belonged, where she was living there with her husband and their daughters. 

John has lost this war before. He’s not ready to lose it again, “son, this is your home. This is your home with your husband. With Derek Hale. You’ve been married for nearly six months now, together for two years,” he adds even if he wasn’t supposed to know that part, know that they were a thing before Stiles was eighteen, even before he was seventeen. 

His brows dip, his eyes dart over to the door, down to his hand. He blinks, his knees give out, dropping to the floor, drawing his legs to his chest, sobbing against them, pressing palms into his eyes and rocking himself.

John follows his lead, kneeling on the floor of the porch with him. His hand falling to grasp around his ankle, through the material of his jeans, his socks, he can feel the pressure and the sheriff knows it.

There’s a long, shuddered breath, his misty eyes appear from behind his hands, there’s a tiny spark, just one, one to remind him of his son, “he didn’t touch me until I was seventeen and then it was just…”

John clears his throat to interrupt, “I know,” he doesn’t want to know. He’s not exactly a saint himself, though he and Claudia were both minors when they started necking on make-out point. He’s gotten to know Derek in the last year and a half, he’s gotten to know the boy that sat huddled against his sister, smelling like smoke and radiating loss in his office six years ago. He’s gotten to know him. And he knows he’s a good man. A good man who never forced a thing on his son. Never coerced, never gave in to his teenage whims. Derek probably deserves a medal for that, Stiles can be very convincing when he wants something. And very persistent. Or he used to be. Used to be.

“Dad?” it’s the same voice that used to sound in the doorway of his bedroom in the months after Claudia’s death. When he’d wake in the middle of the night, when John was already a bottle deep and drifting on the edge of passed out or dead. He’d barely hear his voice, over the rushing of alcohol and the grief tugging at his body. 

What would have been the harm then? How would it have hurt him? To just let him stay. To let him sleep where his mother used to sleep. To let him lay his head on her pillow. To let him have that peace. 

Instead he’d holler at him, through a drunken fog and sleep blur, he’d holler at him to get back to bed. 

“Son?” his hand tightens on his ankle.

“I’m scared.”

“I know,” when he opens his arms, his boy is there immediately. Shaking and gasping through tears, arms tight, head tucked under his chin, “I know.”


	2. Whatever Comes Next

Whatever Comes Next

Derek spends the evening chasing the moonlight around pale flesh. Every curve of him. Every line of strength and every goosebump that rises at his touch. 

Today was a good day. But by morning he’s gone again. 

Derek allows himself a moment, just one moment on the brink of wake, where the sleeping world allows him the man he fell for, the boy who had just become a man in front of his eyes, the man who was quickly disappearing and there was nothing Derek could do to stop it. The meds, the treatments, the therapies. None of it. 

He allows himself a moment every morning, every morning for his dream memories of the boy he loves to linger in his wake, to linger in the now. 

But now. Now he’s stirring and his eyes are blurry, they’re blinking the sleep away and falling upon confusion and fear in the depth of the eyes he spoke vows to. 

“Uh, I don’t know what,” his hands motion towards his naked body, “or how I got here, or why, um, what we did, but I’m sorry,” his eyes crinkle, “not that hooking up with someone as hot as you is a bad thing, I just, uh, you must be under some kind of spell or something, right? That must be it, you’re, yeah, that must be,” his hand flails and Derek catches it before he can get out of bed. 

He watches as pale fingers bend around his own, bringing them to his lips, gently pressing a kiss, a reminder, a plea to anyone who could possibly be listening to his silence. Tilting his hand, showing Stiles the matching wedding bands.

His brows dip, mouth opens to speak, quickly closing again. Eyeing both of their hands, glancing at Derek’s face, gaze dropping to his bare body, “oh, this is a funny joke Derek, really, really funny,” jerking his hand out of Derek’s, rushing to grab clothes off the floor, making sure to keep what he can of his body covered with the sheet, “I don’t know,” his voice hitches, “what the hell kind of cruel shit is happening right now, why you’d think it was funny to play some fucking joke on me like this. Make me, puny weakling annoying me, think that we were a thing,” he’s yanking his pants on angrily.

Derek’s chest stings, his throat closes, and everything he should say, everything he normally says, everything he whispers to remind him, to tell him, to comfort him; it all gets stuck and he watches him walk away.

———————

His shoulders, so broad and strong, they’re slumped towards his chest. His butt on the top step of the porch, phone in his hand.

Derek sits beside him, brushing their shoulders together, offering a cup of tea and an, “I love you.”

He snorts incredulously, “my phone’s dead, my keys are gone. Otherwise I’d be out of your hair by now and this sick prank could be over.”

Derek’s elbow nudges against Stiles’ arm, “take the tea.”

He avoids eye contact when he accepts the cup. Watching with wide wonder as Derek’s fisted hand rises, settling itself over Stiles’ hand that’s gripping his phone.

“Open,” he orders. 

The phone plunks beside him on the wooden plank, his hand laying open on his knee. He watches as Derek deposits a fistful of pills. 

“What are these?”

“They're yours. Take them.”

“But, I, that’s way more than Adderall.”

“Please.”

“Oh I get it, this is a dream. Gotcha Big Guy,” his hand closes around the pills, he throws them in his mouth and chases them down with tea. Tea that’ll soothe his stomach when those hit bottom, “well, Dream Derek, what now?”

“Now, we wait,” he slips his fingers through Stiles’, watching the way they fit together like puzzle pieces. 

“Wait for what?”

He shrugs, “whatever comes next.”

————————

“Forgetting who you are and the people you love would be the worst way to die,” he sighs, his head resting on Derek’s chest, a book propped on his bent knees. Sprawled on a blanket in the grass. The summer sun laying low in the sky, caressing gold through the green of the forest’s leaves, “like my mom,” he adds quietly, head turning.

Derek tucks his hand behind his head, tilts his face to look at him.

“I hope that it’s not genetic. When I get old enough to have all the memories, then I want to keep them all, I want to horde them and take them with me right into my next life. So I can find you easier next time around. Though sixteen is pretty young to meet your forever guy, but,” he shrugs, his breath warm and soft against Derek’s neck, “it wasn’t like I laid eyes on you and just knew immediately. It’d be cool if it was that way next time.”

Derek’s hand falls to Stiles’ chest, resting there over his heart, “yeah,” he feels himself smile, even with the weights of sadness heavy at the corners of his mouth. He’s accustomed to it.

Stiles shifts his weight, rolls to his belly and braces his elbows in either side of Derek’s head, “maybe in our next life, you’ll still have your family and you won’t always have that cloud hovering over you. And maybe,” his finger trails his jaw, “my mom won’t die young. And maybe,” his thumb rubs along Derek’s lip, “we’ll both be humans so we have the same expected life span, or both be wolves. I’d probably be a pretty awesome wolf,” his nose is close enough that when he turns his head it brushes along Derek’s and he feels himself arch into it. 

Stiles collapses over him like a puppet who’s strings have been cut, slotting their bodies together from chest to toes with a content sigh. 

———————

He smells it on the breeze before he’s even parked the Camaro. Jolting out of the car before he cuts the engine and darting into the house. A pot of rice, blackened. The sharp sting in his nostrils of burning. Burning. Burning rice. And burning hot-pads and burning human flesh. 

He’s standing at the sink. the water turning to steam immediately as it spills into the soiled pot, his hand shaking, he’s holding his wrist in his unscathed hand, watching as the blisters pop out on his swirled fingertips and lined palm. 

“Stiles,” Derek warns gently, taking the steps towards him until he can feel his body heat but there’s no physical contact.

“I forgot,” he tells him breathlessly, “I forgot.”

“It’s okay,” his hand slides over his husband’s back, he doesn’t resist, doesn’t pull away, so Derek closes the distance, taking his wounded hand, watching the black lines rise up his forearms, adjusting the water to lukewarm and steering his hand underneath it. 

“I forgot,” it’s laced with tears, “I forgot. And I could have, I could have burned the house down. Again. Derek, I could have burned the house down again. And you’d have come home to,” it chokes off, he turns suddenly, plasters himself to Derek’s chest and sobs, "again."

Each sob rips through Derek, worse than any physical pain he’s ever felt. Worse than that. Because he can’t fix it. He can’t fix it. The bite would kill him now. It’s too late. It was too late by the time he got that very first scan. It was already too late.

————————

He watches him sleep. The hiccups and cut-off breaths. The way he’s cradling his hand to his chest in his sleep. Derek reaches out every few minutes to watch the black ink rise in his forearms, to let him drift back into sleep. Calm and dreamless sleep. He deserves that much. Derek might not be able to give him much anymore, but he can give him that. 

“I love you,” he reminds him, hoping it slips into his ears while he sleeps, it winds around his brain and it makes itself a nice little home right there in the center of his mind, right there where the disease can’t take it. Right there where it’ll always stay, and if Stiles is right, it’ll be there in his next life too.


	3. Counting Breaths And Watching The Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isaac's POV. Warnings include: implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced domestic abuse, character death, human sacrifice (Isaac doesn't see it but he can hear it).

Counting Breaths And Watching The Moon

Isaac’s blood runs cold when he hears Stiles shout, a cry of pain and frustration. But he stays. He stays still. And silent. And he reminds himself this isn’t his dad’s house, this isn’t a place where he’s going to get locked in a freezer. This is a place that has become his home. It’s become his home because of Derek and because of Stiles. 

So he stills, and he waits in silence. 

He knows he’s Derek’s only option, the only pack member who won’t question him, won’t try to talk him out of it. He’s made up his mind and no one can change it.

He exits the house with eyes more stubborn and flared that Isaac has ever seen them. They’re strobing between Alpha red and human hazel in the glow of the porch light. Stiles is unconscious in his arms. 

He’s drugged him. There was no other way. He’d never agree to it if he knew.

Isaac holds the door open, helping maneuver the gangly arms and long legs into the backseat of the Camaro, watching as Derek slides in with him, propping his upper body across his legs. 

Hustling around the hood of the car to get to the driver’s side, firing up the engine, backing out in the cover of darkness. He didn’t tell a soul. Knowing they’d be angry, they will be angry at him for allowing this, for going along with it. But Derek made up his mind. And if it had to be anyone, it had to be Isaac to accompany them. Issac can stand being the silent sentry. He can listen to pain and hurt, and he can stand through it. He did it for his whole childhood. Listened from his bedroom, sitting quietly on his knees on the floor, toes tucked under the door to hold it shut. Listened as his dad hollered at his mom. Listened to the sickening sound of it. 

Isaac can stand through it. 

————————

“My last will is in the filing cabinet, top drawer, you’re the executor. Like we talked about,” his voice is certain.

Isaac steals a glance through the rearview mirror. His face aimed down, softness there. A softness that only appears for Stiles.

“Got it,” he agrees. His breath keeps catching in his throat and he fights with his body to stay on the road, to keep heading South. To follow the road to the old temple ruins in Mexico. To do the thing that needs to be done. For the good of their pack. For the good of their family. For the good of Stiles.

‘You’d be lost without him’, is what Derek told him. His eyes burning holes through Isaac’s head, ‘all of you would be. And you will be lost soon if you don’t do this for me’. His tone had left no room for argument. Isaac sometimes thought of his dad in moments like that. What it would mean to challenge his authority. Derek wasn’t his dad, he was nothing like his dad, but something beaten into him, something so engrained in his fibers wasn’t going to just go away overnight. He’d always revert to being that child locked in the freezer no matter how much kindness was bestowed upon him in the years to follow.

————————

He does what he’s told. Stands outside. In the reflection of the stars and moon. And he’s grateful for this happening on a New Moon instead of Full. The feeling of losing control already ripping through his body. Losing control as the instinct to protect, to shield his Alpha, is coursing through his veins. 

His claws won’t retract, pressing blood into his palms, forcing breath by pain. Counting breaths and watching the moon. Watching his eyes close, watching figures form in his blackened lids. Watching his imagination take root. Blood and death, a sacrifice made freely, made in love, and made through truth. 

Issac shudders as he hears Derek gasp, a sharp inhale followed by fluid filling his lungs. He digs his claws deeper into his hands, forces his eyes to open to the sight of a moon and a million stars. Forcing his breath to even. Forcing his ears to focus on a hare running through the desert about a mile away. Listening to it’s feet hitting the rock and dirt. As it takes off at full speed to dodge a coyote. 

Senses pulled inward once more, pulled towards that bond between Alpha and Beta. Pulled towards Derek’s last whispered, “I love you,” and the way it echoes in the big granite room. The way it falters with pain but is steady with conviction.

He hears it when his heart is punctured. He can’t control the shift, his head tilting back and the howling pain that’s pulled though his throat from somewhere deeper than that.

———————

He slides his hand over Derek's eyes, closing his lids. Lingering there to feel his presence, the tiniest glow of him still remaining there in his corpse. The essence that fueled him, that fused him to his pack. It’s still a tiny throbbing glow inside him. Calling Isaac to him silently, drawing him in and holding him there until it fades. Until it’s gone forever. 

The priestess is silent. Her hands stained in blood and her face shadowed by her hood. She nods at him when he places Derek’s hand on his chest. 

The drip, drop, drip of Derek's blood on the floor will follow Isaac like a ghost for the rest of his life. He's certain of this. 

———————

Stiles’ head is bobbing in the passenger side seat, the sedative will wear off soon. And he’ll wake. He’ll wake to a world he knows, one he remembers. A world he knows. A world where half his heart is gone. But his whole life is still ahead of him.


	4. All That Matters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Human sacrifice. Yep, it's gross. Told in Derek's POV.

All That Matters

His every footfall echoes in the hallway. Dank and hollow. Vines growing through the cracks in the rock walls. Stubborn in their search for life.

Stiles is heavy in his arms. Heavy with the feeling of impending death. Decaying from the inside out. He started to smell it on him a week ago. The days were numbered. Time was slipping away as he watched it etch darkness into his eyes and sharpness into his frame. 

His mouth is open, slack with drug-aided sleep. His breath steady. His heart steady. 

Derek watches his face. Knowing he’ll be pissed when he wakes. He’ll be angry at Derek and everyone around him. He’ll be upset that it came to this. That it came to Derek choosing Stiles over himself. But Derek always knew it would come down to that in the end. And he would always choose Stiles.

The dark hallway opens to a great room. Carved from granite. Two marble tables in the center. Pillars with twisted vines creeping towards the ceiling. 

A robed woman stands in the center of the room. A set of antlers in her hands. Sharpened at the tip. Dipped in gold and bronze. Ancient symbols carved into the pommel. 

He takes a deep breath when her glowing eyes meet his through the shadow of her hood. Laying Stiles’ limp body on the closer table. He runs his fingers over his pale ones, feeling the metal of his wedding band one last time, sliding over the sinew of his forearm, up the lean muscles that stretch and weave their way from elbow to shoulder. He watches his hand flatten, rest over his heart, letting the slow rhythm of it calm him. Remind himself that he’s better off, he’s better off living. He’s got so much left that Derek hasn’t had in years. And Derek had Stiles. He had Stiles. Until the disease took him away. Leaving him with nothing. Once again.

He leans down, pressing lips to forehead, lingering long enough to breathe his scent, to let it fill his mind and shroud him in the feeling of home before he slides away. 

He removes his shirt, steps out of his shoes. Lowers himself to the second marble table. Lets his skin ripple with goosebumps as the cold surface meets his bare flesh. 

A deep breath, eyes closed. He knows what’s waiting for him on the other side. Whatever there is there, whatever is looks like or feels like. He knows his family is there. And they’ll welcome him home. 

He always knew it would end this way. And he’s ready. At least he knows there’s an exchange. A life for a life. He’d gladly give his a thousand times for Stiles.

His eyes open when the priestess starts reciting ancient words. Ones he knows the meaning of, ones he memorized, studied every one of them, needing to know that they were just right, they were exactly right. That they would do what they were meant to do. 

Turning his head to look at Stiles’ face, watching out of the corner of his eye as his chest rises and falls. 

The priestess is nearing, her steps hushed across the floor. He feels the pressure of the antlers at the edge of his ribcage and he whispers the chant with her. When his eyes close he sees her, his mother, he sees her down on one knee in front of him, arms extended, waiting for him to run to her. She’s smiling and his father steps out onto the porch behind her. The sound of his siblings echoing through the woods as they howl in joy, shout in fun, and tumble through the trees together. 

The first puncture is the worst, and she has to do it slowly, she has to do it slow enough that he won’t heal himself. That the pain will be unbearable and he won’t have the energy to heal himself. It screams through his head, shaking from every single nerve ending of his body. But he knows. He knows this is the right thing. This is the only thing.

His arm extends until he finds Stiles’ hand, lacing fingers through fingers between them, holding his limp hand steady in his grip, “I love you,” he whispers, tasting blood in his throat as the antlers slide further into his body, arcing under his ribs and entering a lung.

He knows Isaac is right outside. He knows he can trust Isaac. He knows Isaac has control mastered in ways that none of the others do. 

He fights the urge to scream, fights the urge to rip the antlers out of her hands and tear them out of his body. He fights his wolf to stay silent, to stay curled up in pain inside him. Steadying his gaze on his husband’s face. The fluid is rising in his throat, choking off his breath and the cough doesn’t dislodge it. He feels it trickle out of the corners of his lips. Coating his teeth no different than slicing his canines into the throat of an enemy. 

He watches as the pale fingers of the priestess draw designs in his blood on his husband’s forehead. Pressing her thumb against the center of his eyebrows and whispering the seal. 

His last breath aches, burns through him, falters under the pressure of the antlers that she’s punctured his lungs and still beating heart with. He feels it thud in one final spasm against his ribs. A smile tugs at his lips as he watches the priestess finish the ceremony. It’s over now. Stiles is safe now. And that’s all that matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (He's not dead, he's evolving)


	5. He Died For Me

He Died For Me

There are supposed to be seven stages of grief. But Stiles skipped right over shock and denial, straight to anger. 

He has a bruise on his left wrist and a few scrapes on his right arm, a rib that feels wrong and dried blood in a nostril from trying to fight Isaac. While they were driving down the road. With Derek’s dead body in the backseat. 

There was no denying he was dead. Stiles could see it with his own two eyes. Hear it with his own two ears. Even his puny human ones.

He’d gone cold already. But what pissed Stiles off the most was the look on his face. Like he died with a content smile on his lips. Like he was so fucking proud of himself for doing what he did, for sacrificing his life. Like he was so happy to just leave Stiles behind. And Stiles knows, he knows, that he can be a giant pain in the ass, he knows he talks too much, and makes too much noise, and he takes up a lot of space for one person but he always thought Derek loved him in spite of all that. He always thought Derek would love him no matter what. No matter what happened. And he’d always put Stiles first. He always has. 

But now? Leaving him? Leaving him behind? Alone. 

———————

He’s got both hands fisted in Deaton’s collar, pushed him back against the wall in the clinic, “you let him do this! I know it came from you, I know you’re the one who told him it would work, you’re the one who told him there was a solution. I know it was you!”

He doesn’t flinch at the feel of Stiles’ anger, doesn’t blink at the level of his voice. His eyes drop to the floor, steal a glance across Derek’s body that was punctured by fucking reindeer antlers or some other ridiculous thing that probably has a name in the beastiary like a fucking Peryton. 

It’s as much an admission of guilt he’ll ever get from someone like Deaton. His body jerks back, his right arm, the one that’s fisted and ready, gets grabbed behind him. Swinging his entire body around to face the asshole who’s stopping him from beating his frustrations out on an old man, he’s met with the gaze of his father. 

“Tell me you didn’t know,” it sounds ripped out of him, watery and broken, “tell me you didn’t know,” he can feel his dad’s other hand gripping his arm now, tugging him closer, forcing an embrace as he melts towards the floor and Dad follows him.

“I didn’t know,” he admits, quietly and truthfully.

“You wouldn’t have let him, right? You wouldn’t have let him,” he chokes off and doesn’t have to finish the rest, knowing his dad knows. His dad knows what this is going to do to Stiles now. And no amount of living after the person you love has died can make it worth going on alone. 

————————

He lost two years of his life to the memory thief. Two years to an outsider. But there are plenty of memories, there are plenty of things he’ll never forget, that nothing could ever take from him. Like the first time Derek kissed him. Like it was the last proclamation of a dying man. And maybe it was, maybe he knew all along that loving Stiles would kill him. 

“It’s hard,” Dad pats his knee, sitting outside Deaton’s on the stoop, cement cold and unforgiving underneath him. 

He’s been riding the edge of panic since he very first laid eyes on Derek’s unmoving face. Blurring at the edges, his breath too loud in his own ears, his heart beating too quickly and trying to break through his ribs. The rush of adrenaline that leaves his fingertips numb and tingly. His legs rising pins and needles. 

He wants to snap, he wants to retort something sharp and witty. He wants to rub it in his dad’s face so that someone, someone understands, so that someone feels what he’s feeling right now. 

But Dad just got his son back. His only son back. And he’s not going to feel it right now, no matter how angry Stiles is. No matter what he bites him with, it won’t cut deeper than skin level. 

Dad’s eyes are swimming in tears. And he supposes the man is on some kind of ledge himself. In the last few years he’d gotten close enough to Derek that he was calling him son, so maybe he did lose a son tonight. Or last night. 

Stiles leans his head back, letting it thunk against the door, watching the sky turning shades of morning grey, “I want to go home.”

————————

Dad drives him home in the cruiser. Leaving Derek’s bloodstained Camaro parked at Deaton’s. Isaac can deal with it now. 

He can’t bear to look at him one more time, couldn’t bear to say goodbye. If it’s real, then it would be the final time. It would be the last time he’d lay eyes on him. And he doesn’t want that to be it. He doesn’t want to look again, to have it steal the memories he has of that smile, that smile he was so quick to hide for so long. That smile that he’d only wear for Stiles. 

Maybe this is denial. 

“I’ll um,” Dad’s eyes are on his face, he can feel them there but he can’t look back at him. He can feel his hand on his leg, squeezing his knee, reassuring.

“Yeah,” he knows. Dad is going to do the parts of this he needs to do. Dad’s done this before. He’ll make the arrangements. There’s a body to take care of. A body that Stiles will never feel under his fingertips, will never feel against his chest, will never have tangled up in his own. Never again.

There are arrangements to be made. And explanations to be made. And how the hell is anyone going to buy into some miracle treatment that fixed all of Stiles’ problems over night, and top it off with another animal attack that killed his husband in the same night?

————————

He can hear his phone buzzing. But he doesn’t bother looking. There’s no point. It’ll be Scott. And Melissa. And Lydia. Allison, Erica, Boyd. Hell, it’ll be everyone he’s ever passed a glance at who wanted nothing to do with him before. Offering condolences. Like it helps. Like they know. Like they have any fucking idea. 

“He died for me,” he hears himself tell the woods around him. Around his home. Around the place that Derek’s entire family burned to death in. Around the place where he’s certain Derek can still smell them and feel them and miss them with every breath he takes. Took. He’ll have to get used to that now. Derek is past tense. Now.

The home that Derek renovated around the broken bits of the old structure. The home that Derek made a home by loving, and laughing, and building every moment between them into the walls and the floorboards and the goddamn ceiling. 

He can’t go in there. He can’t go in there but he can’t go anywhere else. He can’t walk in to see his ghost in every corner, to expect him to sneak up and startle him, to wait for him to be lurking around the next corner like the creeper that he is. Was. Was!

He can’t walk into their bedroom and lay down on the bed. Facedown and smell his pillow. He can’t be invaded with the memories of all the lingering kisses he left on every single inch of Stiles’ flesh. He can’t see that face hovering over him in the darkness, looking down at him like he’s the finest thing he’s ever seen, ever touched, ever been allowed to keep. 

He can’t go into the kitchen and hear the banging of dishes and pots and pans and smell the home cooked meals. He can’t sit on the couch and not be bombarded by the way he’d wrap his arm around Stiles’ shoulders, like it was a perch made just for him. 

He can’t go in there. And he can’t go anywhere else. 

He can’t go back down to Mexico and make that bitch take him instead. What the hell? Did Derek make it to the bargaining phase of grief over Stiles, is that what this was all about? He was grieving Stiles before he was already dead and his bargain actually worked?

The snort of disbelief that exits his body comes out with a gasp and a sob. His fight against panic is about to be lost and he’s alone. He’s alone in the home that Derek built. The home that Derek built for him. For them. For their future.

————————

He wakes without realizing he had fallen asleep, or maybe passed out, or died of grief. Panic fucked like he’s just run a goddamn ultramarathon. There’s a blanket wrapped around him, half over him. It’s so soft. And heavy. That is one seriously heavy blanket. 

For a moment his exhausted, grief stricken brain plays a trick on him and convinces him that it’s Derek lying with him. That he came home from Mexico to find Stiles sitting crumpled and shivering on the porch. And instead of picking him up, carrying him to bed, he just wrapped himself there, right there in Stiles’ body. Half behind him and half over him, just like always, just like Stiles likes to be held. Like Derek can keep him from taking flight just from having one heavy arm over him and one warm leg laced through his. 

His stupid head even gets him to mumble a, “Derek,” into the empty space around him that’s occupied by a blanket. A blanket Stiles! Not a man. His breath shakes, pinching his eyes closed that much tighter hoping he can just slip away, he can stay in this hazy space between dream and reality. The dream where Derek is alive and well, and the reality where he’s lost him. 

The dream can take him away, he knows it can. He can slip into a sleep so deep that nothing will ever wake him, that he’ll lie here on the porch of the home they made and he’ll dehydrate to death. He can do it. The gentle breathing on his neck can bring him there. The feel of Derek’s arms around him can bring him there. The sound of his heart beating steadily against his back can bring him there. 

And this ridiculously soft blanket that feels an awful lot like a fur can bring him there. A groan escapes him when he realizes that he’s no longer alone here, if he’s covered in a blanket that he didn’t have when he passed out, then someone is here. Most likely Dad. Or maybe Isaac is back. 

The groan forces his eyes open, his head tilts to look at what luxurious fur is wrapped around him and wonder where it’s been hiding all these years, maybe it was something Derek bought when Stiles was losing his mind, but it’s not like Derek would ever buy a real fur, that’s like wearing the skin of his brethren or something. Oh Hale, please don’t let it be the skins of his ancestors. 

“Oh holy,” it chokes off, and sputters, “Hale,” as he darts away from the fur. The fur with eyes. And a nose. And a tongue that is currently half rolled in a yawn like it’s been sleeping too. And it’s black coat is gorgeous and it’s eyes are blinking lazily, it’s eyes that are the ever-changing hazel of Derek’s and that’s so not fair. His weird sleep haze must be encroaching on his reality. Maybe Derek’s sacrifice didn’t work, maybe he’s still losing it, maybe it only temporarily lifted the dementia, “whatever the hell kind of cruel dream summoned you, you certainly are the most beautiful wolf I’ve ever seen,” he sighs when he comes to a crawling, dragging, flailing halt against the wall of the house where he was trying to get away from the wolf who was going to very viciously attack him at any moment. Sure, that’s what was happening. 

Dragging his knees towards his chest, wrapping arms around them, eyeing the wolf. Who looks like it’s smiling. A smiling wolf. It’s eyes flash from human hazels to a silvery blue that he’s never seen before on any of the werewolves he knows. 

“Yeah, yeah I see that, and it’s beautiful, like I said,” his hand drags along the hem of his jeans, and for some godawful reason flattens out in the space between himself and the wolf that is creeping closer on his belly. He sniffs at it, noses it, and flips it with his snout to land on his head, “ear scratches, huh?” his head tilts, leaning into Stiles’ touch, “yeah, Derek always liked ear scratches too, must be a wolf thing. God forbid I ever call it that, or even tell him he had a thing for it,” he sighs, watching the wolf watch him, “you certainly are a smiley wolf, aren’t you?”

His free hand rises, out of habit, sliding over the wolf’s other ear, holding his face in his hands. When he closes his eyes it’s Derek under his touch. It’s Derek smiling gently at him. Letting him hold him, letting him feel him, letting his calm and comfort take over Stiles’ body as well. 

He listens as the wolf takes a deep breath, shifting under his hands, turning his head to the side a few times so Stiles lets his fingers drop away, assuming he’s ready to leave, “run free wolfy,” he starts, opens his eyes and maybe screeches a little. He’d crawl, scamper, crab-walk away but he can’t back up any further because he’s already against the wall. And he doesn’t actually want to back up from the image in front of him. Even if it some cruel trick his mind is playing. It’s a beautiful image. As beautiful as every image that’s been stamped in his memories that hadn’t faded yet, or if they did, they came rushing back when Derek sacrificed himself to fix Stiles’ brain.

“Derek,” he breathes it in a rush of awe, wonder, and just purely ‘this is fucked up and I never want to wake from this dream and maybe I died, maybe I did die of thirst or starvation or whatever and my body is slowly ascending to where bodies ascend as the souls move on to the next plane of living, or next form, or hey maybe I could be a wolf too’, “wow.”

“Stiles. Keep your eyes open,” he whispers it. With his very human body and his very human face, “keep looking at me,” that is quickly melting into a full-blown wolf body and face again. But a wolf with Derek’s eyes before they flash that silvery blue again that is so pretty and he’s got to ask Peter (even though he has no desire to ask Peter anything ever but he knows a lot of stuff so he has to ask Peter things even if he’s lying half the time for his own gain instead of telling the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth) what makes a wolf’s eyes that shade of blue because that is just, it’s gorgeous.

“Derek?”

The wolf sits back on it’s haunches, tilts his head, and starts transforming again. This time, again, into a human Derek. A very human, very naked Derek Hale. 

“Derek, wake me up, someone wake me up,” he can feel his eyes wide as saucers, unable to find a focal point, a single focal point that’ll stick, his jaw clenching tight and every muscle in his body ready for fight or flight while that coil of anxiety starts twisting itself tight in his gut and his hands are shaking, “wake me up! This isn’t fair anymore! I can’t,” his breath quivers, tears start blurring his vision, “someone wake me up!”

Burying his face in his hands, even as warm, strong, familiar arms are wrapping around him, drawing him into his chest, whispering, “you’re awake Stiles. It’s okay, you’re awake. This is real. This is all real. You’re awake.”


	6. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I should warn that there's domestic violence in this chapter - Stiles punching Derek. It's right at the beginning. And then there's kissing. And a happily ever after :)

Home

Derek dodges another fist. For someone who flails around as much as Stiles does, he’s very spot-on with every punch he’s thrown. And he’s landed a lot of them.

“Okay, I give, come on,” ducking away from him again. Superhuman healing doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt to get hit. And he could stop it whenever he wanted, just by taking Stiles by the shoulders and pinning him to the wall. But he’s not going to stop it, because Stiles is pissed and he should be. Probably.

“I don’t know if I want to kill you, or fuck you, or just fucking hold you, you fucking asshole,” there are tears glimmering on his pale cheeks, snot dripping down to his upper lip, his voice is shaking with rage and relief, and probably a whole lot of other things too.

“I know,” taking the opportunity to drop his arms away from his defensive stance. One hand reaches tentatively out towards his husband who’s eyes are brighter than the midday sun. A type of bright he’s not seen on him since before the diagnosis, he feels a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth and tries like hell to fight it. Smiling at him isn’t going to make him any less mad.

“You fucking asshole!” he repeats it, arm rising quickly, hand sliding across the fluids on his face, “you actually thought that I’d want a life without you in it?! I can’t fucking believe you, you fucking prick,” his hard inhale shakes, eyes watering with another round of tears, “that was stupid Derek. Did you know? That you’d come back? That you’d just turn into a wolf instead?”

“I didn’t,” he ducks when the fist is made and the swing is headed towards his shoulder, grabbing his pale, delicate wrist and dragging it up to his lips, “I didn’t know.”

“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do here,” he doesn’t pull his hand away, “I hate you and I’m mad and I don’t want to look at you, but I can’t look away from you, and it doesn’t help that you’re naked right now, and you’re so fucking you and of course you’d sacrifice yourself for me, I should have seen that coming. But it’s stupidly romantic. But what the hell could possibly make you think that I’d want to live without you?”

Free hand rising, reaching out to brush tears off those smooth cheeks that are hollowed out, paler than they should be, but he’ll get better soon. He’ll look like that damn kid in the woods soon enough, with his wide-eyed wonder and snarky comebacks, “I love you,” hearing himself whisper.

The tears burst over, trailing down like mini waterfalls, “I hate you,” it’s buried in Derek’s chest as he gives in to the pull for touch.

“I know you do,” wrapping arms around him immediately, drawing him as close as possible, “and you can hate me the rest of your life, as long as it’s a long, long time,” pressing his face into the top of Stiles’ head, taking a long inhale of his scent. Sharp, and home, and love.

“Yeah, well, we should probably retire from the supernatural life if it’s going to be long. Asshole,” he adds that last part as an afterthought, just to get another jab in. He is nothing if not persistent.

Derek lets the smile tug at his lips, crinkle around his eyes, grasping his husband’s face in his hands and drawing away just far enough to look at him, even though he tries to hide again. Tries to hide the tears in Derek’s chest. Derek wants the tears. He wants the tears and the pain, the smiles, the laughter, the anger, the sass, and every single thing that comes with loving Stiles. Instead of wiping the salty fluids off with his fingers, he leans in, kisses them against his skin, lets his lips absorb them, keeps them for himself.

A sigh shudders past his lips, eyes closed when Derek leans back, watches as they move beneath lids before opening and flooding him. He’d resist the pull, he’d resist the need, if he thought Stiles wanted him to. But he doesn’t. Pressing slowly at first, gentle, just lips on lips. 

Hands flat, palm-down on Derek’s chest. They’re cold and a little clammy. His scent is spiked with lemons, anxiety having taken over for the last twelve hours or however long Derek’s been dead. 

It’s Stiles who parts his lips first. Taking a deep breath, afraid that he’ll taste Derek just to find out he’s someone else. Derek waits, stays against him, keep the connection between them open. Lets Stiles make the move, start the explorations, start the silent communications. 

His hands slip across Derek’s chest, around his ribs and press into his back, bringing them closer, impossibly closer as his tongue lingers on Derek’s lower lip, trailing the length of it, then testing, tasting, and approving of his upper lip as well. 

He draws back, content with his explorations for now, some of the nerves slipping away from him, hands remaining on flesh, his index finger begins it’s incessant tapping on Derek’s skin. Lips pursed in a thoughtful pout before his tongue darts out to lick them, tempting Derek to no end, a smile cracking. The little bastard knows that, of course he knows that. He’s got Derek wrapped around his long, skinny finger and he always has. He knows exactly which strings to pull at exactly what time, “okay, get dressed you weird exhibitionist. I should probably call my dad and tell him to stop making arrangements,” his right hand leaves Derek’s skin, instantly rising pins and needles of longing in the bare spot. Tugging his phone out of his pocket, eyes dropping to look at the screen, he’s not pulling his body away yet, he’s perfectly happy to just stand here. Chest to chest. One hand lazily stroking circles on Derek’s shoulder blade, that one finger still tapping away, “oh, well, what do ya know? They’re having a hell of a time finding your corpse,” there’s a wicked tick in his eyebrow when his eyes land on Derek’s, twinkling with mischief, “it’s almost like it got up and walked away, like a zombie or…”

“Whatever you’re thinking, just stop.”

“Oh come on, they think someone stole your corpse. We could have fun with this for days. Weeks. Months even,” he’s grinning now. It steals Derek’s breath, making his heart thud painfully against his ribcage.

Watching his hand rise, tracing the curve of his husband’s smile with the pad of his thumb. It’s been so long, it’s been so long. Maybe he’s realizing now just how much it hurt, to have him right there but a million miles away for two godawful years that were as painful as they were beautiful. And maybe he’ll always cherish that smile, that wit, and that ridiculousness that is Stiles just a little more because of the time it was gone, because of the time it was unreachable. Or maybe he always has cherished it. 

He doesn’t see Stiles’ hand move, only realizes it has when it contacts his cheek, slipping a tear away that Derek didn’t realize was falling, “it’s me,” he confirms in a whisper, “totally one hundred precent me with all my annoyingness and all my spasticness and I’m planning on sticking around for awhile Hale so you don’t need to look at me like you’re about to lose me again. I’m here forever now, well, not really forever, but as long as I live at least and maybe I’ll come back in the next life to haunt you as well, or follow you around and terrorize you, just to,” his words are cut off in his mouth. Cut off because Derek nows how to shut Stiles up. Even though most often, he tries valiantly to keep talking even as their lips are mashed together and Derek’s tongue is diving into his mouth to steal the words away from him. 

————————

“For the record,” Stiles grumbles into his pillow the next morning when the feel of Derek’s eyes trailing over his bare skin wakes him, “I still hate you.”

“Mmm hm,” he agrees, watching the goosebumps rise and spread, ripple across the expanse of him as Derek’s finger traces his spine, “certainly sounded that way last night.”

“Mmmpff,” he agrees, a full body shudder following Derek’s lips down his back, “and it’s going to sound that way in about five seconds, isn’t it?”

“More like three,” fingers gripping the knobs of his pelvis to pull him towards Derek, “two,” lips at the flat of his back, watching him arch into it, “one.”

————————

“I guess,” he sighs, legs wrapped around Derek’s hips, lips abused by kisses, and sweat slicked through his hair, the space between them soaked with it, “you were right,” hands busy playing with the hair at the nape of Derek’s neck, “you won’t have to make me fall in love with you a thousand times,” a smile quirking his lips, “since I’ll never fall out of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snip, snap, snout, this tale is told out. Thanks friends :) Take care of yourselves. You might find me on tumblr, but not often, so feel free to share this or wipe your ass with it, whatever floats your boat. Kudos and comments are cool.

**Author's Note:**

> Take care of yourselves friends. And leave kudos before you go to take care of me :)


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